


In Our Heads After the War

by VioTanequil



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioTanequil/pseuds/VioTanequil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dust settles as everything comes to a close - it clings to their hair, licks at their uniforms, digs into their skin, burrows its way into the small cavities everyone has in their hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miles

Miles crawls up from the ground - the ground? When had he laid his head to rest? Sunlight licks his face and the world seems abnormally bright for a landscape that is dirt ground and not snow.

Immediately his fingers fly to his face, feeling for the metal frame that keeps his eyes hidden from the world. He finds the thin metal, releases the breath he had not realized he had been holding.  _ One of us _ , Ishvalan echoes in his head,  _ how could you, how do you live with yourself _ . 

His hands are shaking. The last time anyone spoke to him in Ishvalan was at his Grandfather’s dinner table.  _ That is not for people like us, Miles. That is what we give to Ishvala who has given us all. _ His Grandfather who is now dead but whose eyes and skin he now wears.

A grunt from behind him. “Lieutenant General Grumman,” he hears someone, then sees the uniform of the Eastern Army streak past him. Miles shakes the film of confusion from his mind.

“I’m fine,” Grumman says, staggering back to his chair, furious but alive.

One of Miles’ lieutenants helps up a Briggs private to his feet. Around them men are struggling back to their posts as the sun beats down upon them. The whisperings begin. Terrorists? Revenge? The Eastern Army is understandably nervous - the Ishvalan genocide was primarily theirs. Though soldiers follow orders but it is easier, so much easier to target them and look it is not Major General Armstrong but an Ishvalan that leads the Northern soldiers.

“Just because he has dark skin doesn’t mean that Major Miles is one of them,” he hears one of his men hiss, “he’s not a terrorist. He didn’t have anything to do with Fuhrer Bradley and he doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

Miles can feel Grumman’s eyes on his back because he is, he did, and he does.

_ Traitor _ , the voices in his head that speak Ishvalan, the voices that surrounded him in pain and suffering, his undead blood brethren that live on in Philosopher’s Stones whisper.

Traitor.

* * *

The moment Miles steps into the hospital as the sun sets on the Promised Day the Briggs men turn to him like the first sprouts of spring, tentatively poking their heads out from the snow, desperately searching for their first glimpses of sunlight. These soldiers can survive without their leaders, know what is expected of them when given orders but the dust is settling, the battle is over and all they are are strangers in a strange land and it discomfits them to be so leaderless.

A day of rest, he tells them, watches as faces crack in relief, as shaking fists slowly unclench, as his subordinates scatter in search of familiar faces. The wounded, the injured, the incapacitated, the dead. So many dead - they have not lost so many in so long. Red on white coats, he sees smears and splatters and tiny droplets that are only now beginning to congeal.

He hears whispers but there is more he needs. He can hear his footsteps down the corridor of the hospital but no one ventures any other useful information. 

“Major Miles,” he hears as he rounds a corner.

“Major Armstrong,” he snaps into a salute, bites the question he wants most to ask off of his tongue, “how may I be of assistance?”

“My sister requests you report to her at your earliest convenience.” 

Major Armstrong looks him up and down, finds nothing worthy of rebuke, no reason why Miles should not go running to her immediately, “I suggest you attend to her presently.”

Miles does.

* * *

He slides the door closed behind him, salutes before he even has the chance to take in the entirety of the room.

“Major Miles.”

“Major General Armstrong, sir.”

He reads it in the tension of her jaw, sees it in the corners of her eyes, breathes it in the air now still around them. 

Buccaneer is dead.

“I am told,” she says, turning away from him, “that Captain Buccaneer died inflicting a fatal wound on King Bradley.”

Miles is holding his gaze to the space behind Major General Armstrong’s head but the mention of Buccaneer pulls him back. He watches her eyes close, sees her chest fall in an exhalation before she snaps back to this world that Buccaneer no longer occupies, “He fulfilled his duties and passed away with a smile.”

He says nothing, lets silence fill the space between them. Buccaneer would have chuckled.

“Miles,” she says as the streetlamps slowly flicker to life.

“Yes General.”

Her eyes flick to his, she clenches her teeth, her eyes close, her chest falls in an exhalation before she snaps back to this world, “There is still work to be done. Mustang wishes to speak with you. Go to him.”

Miles does.

* * *

Each of Miles’ heartbeats echoes in his chest.

“I intend to see Ishval rebuilt.”

He can hear his blood thrumming through his veins.

“I cannot do that alone.”

His mind is blank.

“Follow me, Miles. Rebuild the land of your forefathers.” 

His fists tremble from inside their gloves, pressed firmly into his sides so no one can see. 

He says nothing. It was easy, so easy to feel that he could change the world under Major General Armstrong - so easy to tell himself that by existing he could change it all, that simply by existing, by being dark-skinned, red-eyed, by demanding attention and promising results that he could show them that he was  _ just like them _ and it would be enough. But it would never be enough and he has always known that it would never be enough, that he alone could never be enough, that he has never done enough, never put himself out there, never tried to right this wrong except in petty arguments in icy corridors in a fortress so far away it never mattered.

Until now.

Now that he can, now that it is dangled right in front of him Miles knows that he has no right. How can he have a right, he who suffered not as they suffered, bled not as they bled, he who is Ishvalan when it is convenient when he can when it helps.

Uncles he has not seen. Cousins he has never met. Brothers, sisters under the sky whose blood has painted the sands red and who he will never know. They will not live to see this - only he, he in skin and eyes who is Ishvalan but was not Ishvalan enough for them, had not been Ishvalan enough.

“I understand that you may wish to have more time to think this through. Lord knows it took me a long time to get to this,” Mustang says, looks through his glasses to his eyes.

In them Miles sees determination, sees a land of sand and wind, of culture and prosperity, of a quiet calm of things that will never be the same again but that can one day be alright. He sees nothing of Mustang’s own insecurities, of the wars that all soldiers fight in their heads, of the fires and the flames and the smell of burnt human flesh, of oil in the air that clings to lips and slips down throats and if Mustang will not let this stop him then how can he? Miles’ treacherous heart leaps and falls - will Amestrians never cease to guide him back to his path, will he always be reliant on an other to point the way?

Miles swallows the dry knot of sand in his mouth, feels it pour past his tongue down into his stomach. He is unworthy, he will always be unworthy but this is not about his petty worries, not about his fears and his regrets. This is and has always been bigger than a single man, bigger than the quarter-Ishvalan Major running away from his fears, covering his eyes and ears and wishing it would all go away.

“With all due respect sir, I have had enough time.”

Mustang smiles, thin, wan, takes a step back. Then the self-assured cocky glint returns to his eyes.

“Now that that’s settled, Major, I’ll leave it to you to inform Major General Armstrong of this development. I rather prefer my limbs intact.”


	2. Alex

The sun has set when Alex is done wiping the last of his tears from seeing Alphonse _Alphonse-the-boy_ sleeping _sleeping_ like an angel on a hospital bed. In deference to Edward and Miss Winry, the last half hour or so of tearing he has done outside of the room, far away from anyone he could bother. There were a few Briggs soldiers loitering around that looked at him but besides them Central Headquarters is empty much as it would be on an ordinary day.

He affords himself one last sniffle before ducking into the bathroom. Alex splashes cold water from the sink onto his face, pats it dry with a towel and has a good long look at himself in the mirror.

Dust clings to his arms, his uniform is matted with grey splotches and blood stains. His shoulder is looser than it should be, there is an ache in his elbow that throbs in time with his heart but his eyes are strong and clear and he is not ashamed.

Perhaps it is time he returns home.

* * *

Armstrongs are not cowards.

He was not raised a coward and now that he has stood his ground Alex knows that he is not a coward.

That knowledge does not stop him from hopping over the back wall of the Armstrong estate in the darkness away from the streetlamps and hopefully out of sight of Olivier. He knows his oldest sister well enough - simple fractures will not stop her and she has never held much love for being coddled in hospitals.

This is entirely out of practicality, he tells himself. The apartment he had been staying in after having been kicked out of the manor is now nothing but dust after the Dwarf in the Flask was done with that one corner of Central Headquarters and the surrounding area.

He has no place left to go to, he has fought bravely today, and he deserves to sleep in a proper bed, assuming Olivier has not already torn everything up - tanks and an entire battalion! Imagine that. He does not know how she managed it but there is a lot that Alex knows he does not understand about his sister.

Despite their battle together against Sloth earlier that very day, which was, now that he thinks about it, the first time he has properly spoken to her even though they have both been at Central for months now, he cannot confidently say that he is in Olivier's good books. Assuming that she even has good books and not just I-tolerate-your-existence books. He has long since stopped believing that simple familial relations will give him any leeway with her.

It is thus with much surprise that he finds himself slipping into his bedroom window to an untouched room.

The floor is spotless, the sheets are made, and there is a vase of fresh flowers on the bedside table.

* * *

He sees a flash of long blond hair and a fur-trimmed coat collar turn down Crawley St and disappear out of sight.

"Sister," Alex quickens his steps and tightens his grip on the bag of sandwiches he has just purchased for the Elrics but stops when he sees her pause and turn to face him.

For a split second, her gaze is subdued and weight dangles at the corners of her lips. Her gloved hand clenches over thin air where the hilt of her sword would have been. Her greatcoat barely hides the sling of her right arm - she is decked out in full military dress, boots glinting in the midday sun, epaulettes and awards polished to a shine.

The moment passes as her eyes narrow, she spins around and disappears into an apartment building.

Alex could follow her but then there is no longer any guarantee that both himself and the sandwiches would make it back to Central Headquarters unharmed and it would be greatly remiss to deprive Alphonse Elric of any food.

He knows that look. He too has once lost men.

* * *

The first postcard does not have Strongine in it. Mother, Father, Amue and Catherine are posed in front of a stone animal of some sort while fabric fans of a thousand colors surround them. There is a dab of pond in the corner. It is a brilliantly beautiful picture and Alex knows that he simply must show it to Olivier since her copy would have been mailed to Briggs.

"Y-You have a visitor, ma'am," he hears the poor Briggs private disappear into her temporary office here at Central Headquarters, the last room down the North corridor on the furthest end. Alex knows that this is no coincidence. He has heard the rumors - that Lieutenant General Gardner died not from the mannequins but from a gunshot to the head, that Lieutenant General Mason had been stabbed before he had been squashed by Sloth.

The Central soldiers needed no reason to further fear the North Wall of Briggs but they got one all the same.

He does not wait for her to allow him entry - this is one of the rare occasions when it is arguable that she is off-duty since the military is technically in disarray and while she is technically Head of Household, he thinks he may get away with this since Father is still with them.

"Sister," he says, easing into the room.

"Tch," says Olivier. He prepares to be scolded for addressing her improperly. The battle against Sloth had provided him with the excuse that they were busy when he had slipped up then - but now he has no such escape. She does not turn from her position glaring at the papers on her desk.

Alex draws the postcard out of his pocket.

"I received this from Father this morning."

Her eyes flick to it, catch the Xingese stamp, flick back to the paper before her. She signs it with a flourish, slides it to her right. It is unbecoming to look but Alex looks anyway, catches only the official informational seal of the military, her signature and nothing else.

She purses her lips.

Alex is about to speak when there is a knock on the door, "The personnel information files you requested, ma'am."

"Enter," she signs another paper.

The private - a different one this time, not from Briggs but probably one of the Central soldiers - does a double take upon seeing him, "Major Armstrong, Major General Armstrong, sirs."

"Leave them by the desk," she does not look up.

The private but fidgets and does not leave. The files are still in his hands. Her lips purse.

"Dismissed," her eyes flick up to read the private's rank, then back down to her papers. "private."

"S-M-Ma'am, these cannot be checked out for longer than a day. W-What time should I return to bring them back to the archives?"

"I will have them returned. You are dismissed, private."

The files are on the desk and the private is out of the door faster than Alex can even think of counting to three. She draws the first sheet closer, fingers lingering on it before sliding it to the left. Some of the page is hidden but the top half is of a young, smiling Warrant Officer Joseph Smith, next-of-kin Maria Smith nee Woolson, address 78 Crawley St.

She signs another Death Notice. If she hears his Alex's fingers crinkle on the postcard of their family she makes no sign.

"Shall I read it to you?"

"You're still here," she says, pauses, pen inches from the paper. She looks up from her work, "aren't you supposed to have something better to do or are all Majors slackers nowadays?"

Unperturbed - if he were to be dissuaded by her disapproval he would have shrunk into nothingness and disappeared into the floor when he was two - he frowns, "I thought you would like to hear from them."

"They are sending postcards," Olivier says, eyes having returned to the papers, "that is all I need to know. You are dismissed, Major."

Alex leaves the postcard on the desk before he lets the doorman Briggs private show him out of her office.

* * *

In trying his best to keep out of Olivier's sight and notice - he is sure she knows he is staying at the estate, is rather sure that she would actively disapprove but he takes the silence for what it is since no angry memos have arrived at his desk - Alex spends more time in parts of the estate that he thinks she thinks he will not use.

Such as the garden that Father gave her as a sixteenth birthday present. Whether Father meant it as a joke no one will ever know and although she makes no effort to spend time in it, it is hers, and all four of the younger Armstrong siblings have known to not attempt to trespass on things that belong to Olivier.

As such it is rather by accident that Alex discovers that Scar is alive.

By accident he means that he stumbles upon Scar lying on the grass by the fountain in Olivier's garden.

"Scar," Alex says, towering over him, "I am glad to see you alive."

"...Armstrong," Scar says, brows knitting, and looks him up and down, "you are related to her."

This is not the first time an outsider is confused by their relationship. Besides the way their blond hair curls, there is no much in the way of familial resemblance, physical or otherwise. Alex knows this.

"O-The Major General is my older sister," he says.

Scar says nothing, looks back to the stars. Alex sits down by the edge of the fountain.

"She is an interesting person," Scar says.

"She is," he says.

There is the distant sound of a car driving by and Scar gets to his feet. Two steps away from the entrance to her garden, Scar stops, turns, "You are also an interesting one."

* * *

He hears his staff scramble to their feet, hears the hasty scraping of chairs and salutes, hears footsteps that are pointed, sharp, and familiar.

"Sis-Major General Armstrong, sir," he says.

"At ease, Alex. I'm heading back to Briggs on Monday with the supplies. The Drachmans get a little too excited if I leave them alone for too long," she says, uninjured left arm playing on the hilt of her sword.

He nods but his eyes fall squarely on her arm cast. She follows his gaze, scowls, sniffs, turns to leave in a whirlwind of blond hair, "I will see you for dinner at home tonight."

* * *

"I think this unwise, Sister."

The look Major Miles shoots him from across the dinner table indicates that the quarter-Ishvalan thinks that Olivier may not be the only Armstrong doing unwise things right now.

"Oh?" The fork and knife in her hands still.

Scar pauses for a moment before continuing to make progress with his mashed potatoes.

"The train ride may aggravate your injuries."

"I hardly think my broken arm will suffer on the train."

"It is not your arm that I am concerned about."

Her jaw clenches, her shoulders tense. Don't you dare, Alex. _Don't you dare_.

He pretends he does not see the meaning in her gaze and plows on, "I am concerned about your ribs, Sister."

The look she shoots him next is one of pure venom.

"Perhaps you should postpone your return to the Fort, sir," Miles frowns.

"Perhaps the Drachmans would like to wait for me to fully recover before they attack," she snaps.

Alex's grip tightens on his knife. Miles' jaw clenches. Scar continues eating.

Olivier sniffs, "I have been gone too long. Any longer and they'll start to forget why they aren't attacking."

He cannot say in all honesty that Drachma does not know that the Northern Wall of Briggs is not there and with Miles leaving tomorrow with much fanfare since Grumman is a fan of theatrics, it will be clear that her second in command is also absent.

She is right.

"At the very least, allow me to make more comfortable arrangements than the supply train," Alex says.

"I think that is a good suggestion, Major General Armstrong, sir," Major Miles says. Alex restrains himself from giving Miles a hug. He can see why Olivier will miss having Major Miles around, even if she will never admit it. Not many people are willing to risk her disapproval.

Olivier slices her steak with more force than is strictly necessary but says nothing.

* * *

Miles and Scar are scheduled to leave.

Fuhrer Grumman conveniently forgets to pass some essential paperwork to them that must arrive the very moment they arrive, so Alex finds himself at the train station, a stack of papers in his hand, looking for Major Miles and whatever disguise Scar is using to get onto trains and away from the prying eyes of tabloids.

As it is, he finds himself searching for long blond hair and a fur-trimmed greatcoat but Miles is the first to spot him. Not that that comes as a surprise to anyone. One of them is at least two heads taller than the average person. The other has red eyes hidden behind glasses.

"Major Armstrong," Miles smiles. Olivier's face cools until he can no longer read it.

"Major General Armstrong, Major Miles," he nods at Scar who returns the acknowledgment with a look, "Fuhrer Grumman said that these documents were to be passed to you before you left."

"You have my thanks," Miles takes the files as the last call for the train is made.

Alex steps back out of earshot to give them their privacy, watches them exchange words, Olivier smile, Miles salute and Scar nod. Alex does not know how he has never realized that she has always been that much shorter than the two men. Then Miles and Scar disappear into the train and, with a billow of smoke, are gone.

One moment her back faces him. The other, she stands before him, eyebrows raised, fingers tapping against each other.

"Well? Are you going to drive me home or should I catch a ride?"

He smiles, "Why I thought you would never ask, Sister!"

She stomps on his foot.


	3. Olivier

Falman. That is the one to blame. One of Mustang's.

She remembers him, shunted onto the supply train by the incompetents at Northern HQ. She reads all their files, well, not immediately but eventually, so she knows that he comes from Mustang's command and that is never a good thing. Fine, not never. Hawkeye is a magician and that other blonde one is fairly useful but she does not have much impression of the rest so it would be unfair to assume that they are as incompetent as Mustang himself.

But this time it is definitely Falman's fault.

She hears that he was loyal to Buccaneer in the latter's final moments and is as grateful for that as she can muster for anyone right now but she knows that no one else under her command would blab to Mustang like this. Perhaps Falman was never under her command and the knowledge irks her more than anything.

More than anything because this is Miles they speak of.

Miles.

Mustang wants Miles.

Bradley killed Buccaneer and now Mustang wants Miles.

* * *

She relinquishes Miles.

It is what is right and be damned if she will not at least do a little that is right today. The blood on her sword drips downwards from where it hangs by her bed but it makes no puddle on the floor because what kind of swordswoman would she be if it were left unclean? She can still feel each rib crack anew, can still hear the bullet she put through Gardner's head, can still smell the scent of blood and mannequin innards and burnt flesh.

Besides, this is Miles' purpose. Who is she - _but another Amestrian -_ to deny him his heritage - _again_?

The sun sets and she walks out of the hospital. No one stops her because there is no one left that has both reason and authority to do so.

* * *

Miles is the first person she sees when she sets foot into HQ the very next day. He falls in step behind her, guides her to some far flung corner of the building that is not in utter shambles. They walk past the room in which she killed Gardner. There is still a bloodstain on the ground that the carpet cannot hide.

He stations a Briggs private outside her door then looks uncomfortable.

She huffs, "Did I train you so poorly, Miles?" _Do I look so poorly that you feel the need to stay here when you are clearly needed elsewhere?_

He grins, shakes his head as he snaps into a salute, "No, ma'am."

* * *

Her pen strokes press deeply into the paper, just a fraction too light to rip it with every descender. The ink, dark and angry, her letters a wretched caricature of their usual graceful script.

Smith, she writes, Briggs, unknown.

She understands. Logically, she knows why this must be so, why she mustn't know how he died. But her hands shake all the same, her letters waver across the page and she needs, needs, needs.

The air in Central really has nothing on Briggs.

* * *

The horn goes.

She climbs onto the train. After all he said, Alex had better have done something amazing to the car. Barring that, at the very least, her luggage should have made it on. Surely no one can lose two suitcases between the platform and the train. Not that she does not trust Alex with simple things like this but relying on someone new is always challenging, even if that someone new is her baby brother.

Besides, she can practically smell the anxiety that grows with every passing moment and that amuses her.

The private - wherever does Alex find so many privates so ready to do his bidding - is he not just a Major? She does not remember being a Major. That was quite a while ago - ducks out of her sight. The supply train is otherwise occupied only by her luggage and-

She snorts, turns, and leaves.

Alex's hands are about two inches away from twiddling thumbs. The look he is giving her strongly reminds her of her time in the hospital, some form of concern and worry and are-you-going-to-break-into-a-million pieces. She would normally smack him in the face (if they were alone at the estate), kick his shins (if they were alone at work), or settle for stomping on his boots but the four poster that looks exactly like her childhood bed tells her that she should at least try to be nice.

"You put a king-sized bed onto the supply train," she says although the disapproval does not reach her eyes.

Alex beams and sparkles, "Only the very best for you, Sister."

"Tch," says Olivier, fingers tapping a staccato on her sword hilt.

* * *

She waves the car away, watches as it slowly crawls into the distance and disappears into nothingness. A chilly gust cuts in from the side, whips her hair from her face. She looks up into the mountains that grow before her, digs her boot into the ground and begins to climb her way home.

She does not cry. She is alive.


End file.
